SevenPerCent Solution
by silverrdoe
Summary: John suspects that Sherlock is succumbing to old habits.


For John, there was nothing quite like London fog. It steeped the city in mystery, the cool air comforting to someone who'd spent so much time in heat. It was a comfort to John, and he never felt as at home when fog settled over London.

As the month had lagged on, the weather had worsened considerably. Maybe it was the dreariness that had so depressed Sherlock, but more likely it was the complete lack of cases. Of course, the occasional client begged the detective to track down a cheating spouse or locate some heirloom, but clad in his dark robe, reclining on the couch, he accepted no cases. He swung from manic activity to a morose, sulking figure, acting like he had a little black raincloud over his head. John felt some guilt that he was not around more often to offer some cheer, but he'd been seeing a woman that had wholly captivated his attentions-a lovely girl named Kate, and John had been too lost in her blonde ringlets to distract Sherlock.

But Ms. Hudson had called John this morning to complain about some racket Sherlock was making in his locked room, and she begged him to come sort him out. John tore himself from Kate's bed, pulled on his coat and trudged into the fog.

The mist on his face, the sky a dull gray, merchants at their magazine stands cowering under the threat of a downpour-it was London at its best, and John was invigorated by it. When he reached the door of 221B, however, his contentness was rudely interrupted by the clanging from upstairs. He climbed the stairs and banged on the door to Sherlock's rooms.

"Sherlock?" John called out, and he tried the door. Locked, of course. "Sherlock, what in the hell are you doing in there?"

"Experimenting," Sherlock replied shortly.

"On what? Caged animals? Oh god please don't tell me you're working on explosives again," John moaned, unsure if Sherlock would even hear about the banging.

"Those were very minor explosives, and it wasn't my fault that they got slightly...out of hand," came his voice between bangs.

"Out of hand?" John said incredulously. "You exploded a hole in the wall, destroyed half the couch, and destroyed my favorite pants! Not to mention you singed off half of your eyebrows."

"I paid for the hole, the couch is still essentially useable, and what fault of mine is it that you left your pants in my work area?" Sherlock wrenched the door open, looking positively livid with energy.

"Work area! It's your goddamn living room!" John said angrily and strode in the room before Sherlock could protest. He was still mourning the loss of those pants. John's mouth hung open when he observed the state of the rooms. It looked like something had detonated something inside, to be sure. Books, newspapers, pens, little glass bottles and flasks (obviously traces of some chemicals, judging by the smell), were all strewn about, and that wasn't even mentioned the very strange figure at the center of the room. A rubber dummy stood at alert, the sort one would see a boxer practice upon. John burst into laughter and turned to Sherlock.

"Have you been...working out?" John asked, laughing. Sherlock now looked especially cross and stormed across the room, picking up the rubber dummy, and shoving it into a closet. "Oh well, it's a good use of your energy. I'm sure there's a gym you can join," John suddenly laughed even harder. "Oh god, just imagined you in gym shorts and trainers, it'd be a real look on you I'm sure-"

"Oh do shut up!" Sherlock snapped, and threw himself down on his obviously ashen couch. "If you must know I was...brushing up on some fight tactics, should be prepared for anything in a case, y'know."

"Yeah, cause I can't be your bodyguard all the time," John chucked. Sherlock crossed his arms in a huff. His frustration was endearing, really. "Tea?"

"No," Sherlock said shortly. John shrugged, and went in the kitchen to get some for himself.

"Anyone come in?" John asked, putting on the kettle.

"No," Sherlock repeated, his desolation undercutting the curt reply. John grimaced hearing his pain. Sherlock's black moods were so overwhelming, completely taking up all of him. And as bad as John felt, he knew he couldn't do anything to help. Just stand by, as Sherlock looked out the window listlessly, or tucked his violin under his chin and played as if in a trance, endure the occasional explosion, until a case came and took his attention and energy once more. John poured the hot water into his mug, and added the teabag. As he leaned across the table to grab some sugar, his eyes were caught by something back in the living room (or apparently, "work area"). An ashtray, seemingly tucked back by the window. Sherlock was smoking again. John glanced at his friend, languid on the couch, and felt something he couldn't quite place his finger on. Smoking again..that opened a lot of other possibilities, he knew, destructive ones.

"Are you sure you won't have any tea?" John asked, a bit too loudly, he thought afterward. Sherlock popped up, glaring at his friend, and then spoke begrudgingly.

"Coffee, if you're going to be so persistent," Sherlock muttered. John put on his half smile, and moved towards the cabinet. Again, he glanced back into the living room, and as Sherlock leaned his head back, staring out the window at the fog, John recognized the feeling-suspicion.


End file.
